Talent
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: "Nothing funny... I just like talent." When all is said and done, sometimes there is nowhere else to turn. An encounter between a poet and a tango dancer.


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Talent

Disclaimer: It's Baz's, surely you know this by now.

Author's Note: Well. This is my first time writing anything of this nature inside the world of MR, but believe me, there is a reason for it, a reason that a few select people know. This is dedicated to those people. You know who you are. Also for Norah, since she insisted I write more MR. You asked for it.

As for the rest of you... don't hurt me.

***

There was a hesitant knock on the door, so soft that it was nearly inaudible. He looked up from the bottle in his hand and blinked a bit blearily. "Who is it?"

It was a while before the reply came. When it did, it was just as inaudible as the knock. "Me." With a complaining moan, the doorknob turned and the door opened slightly, allowing him a view of the shaggy brown hair and the wide, childlike eyes, blurred now by drink.

He stood abruptly, nearly toppling the table and upsetting the bottle of Absinthe. The bottle shattered on the floor, spilling green liquid on the wooden boards. "Mierde," he muttered, dropping to his knees and attempting to clean up the mess. The boy was in the room in a moment, kneeling by his side to help.

"Here, let me..."

"No, it was my fault... leave it, boy."

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have... shouldn't have startled you." He reached for a piece of green glass. "It's wasted now..."

He shrugged. "There was not that much left," he admitted sheepishly.

Christian sat back on his haunches, staring at his hands, which were covered in absinthe. "Does it help?"

A quick shake of his head. "Not anymore."

"Me neither." He picked up another shard, and the Argentinean noted that the glass was the same shade as his eyes, though they were hidden beneath a curtain of dark hair. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed the strands away. Christian jerked at the contact and glanced sharply up at him.

"Por favor... it is just... you look so sad. It is a shame for such talent to be wasted over a thing such as sorrow."

"What did you expect me to do?" he snapped. "Forget?"

"Have you tried?"

"No, I haven't tried!"

They lapsed into silence, with the Argentinean watching as Christian continued to pick up the scattered remains of the bottle, his eyes tracing the curve of his spine, until one of the glass pieces sliced into the boy's hand. Christian dropped the shards he had been holding and fell backwards, clutching his hand as the blood welled up in his palm. The Argentinean was by his side in a heartbeat, his pale hands held firmly in the tanned, callused ones of the tango dancer. "Let me see," he said gruffly, gently pulling away Christian's other hand. He took the edge of his shirt and wiped away the pooled blood. He winced as the rough material swept over the wound. "Shh," the Argentinean whispered, his absinthe-tainted breath washing hot over skin. "Hold still." He tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around Christian's hand to stop the bloodflow. "There." He placed a kiss on the boy's trembling hand, then on his fingers, which still tasted of absinthe.

He smiled slowly and licked his lips. "It did no go to waste after all."

Christian stared at him. "What?"

"The absinthe." He nodded downwards. "Your hands."

"Oh." He flushed suddenly and turned his head away, looking anywhere except at the man kneeling beside him, the man who was close enough so that he could feel the heat radiate from his body. He didn't want to feel that. It reminded him too strongly of... her. He didn't want to feel that way again... did he?

No... no. 

But as the Argentinean cupped his cheek in a strong hand and turned his face back towards him, the denial fell away. He needed something, needed this... before he went mad. His head fell back with a thud against the wall as the Argentinean leaned forwards, the liquor in his breath intoxicating them both. Another hand came up behind his neck, cradling his head. "You had so much talent," he breathed in an accent thickened by lust and drink.

Green eyes stared back at him, full of fear and want and need. And then their mouths were crushed together in a flood of desire, the Argentinean claiming the boy hungrily. He pressed him back against the wall, blindly fumbling with his shirt buttons. Christian gasped against the kiss as the strong hands pulled his shirttails from his pants. The hot hands were on his skin, holding him, pulling him, wanting him. He tasted the absinthe on the other man's mouth, wanted more of it. He pressed into the kiss, his tongue darting out hesitantly to draw some of the heady liquid into his own mouth.

Suddenly, he was no longer pressed firmly against the wall, but lying on the ground, the Argentinean atop him, staring down at him breathlessly. For a moment, neither moved nor spoke. They simply stared at each other, breathing heavily, until Christian raised his head and pressed his lips slowly against the other man's. He felt him smile against the kiss. "Un momento, mio," he murmured. He broke away and, using his booted foot, kicked aside the still-scattered glass. He bent and ran his fingers along the floorboards, coating them once again in the spilled remnants of the bottle. Then he knelt beside Christian, one arm astride him, and traced the boy's lips with his fingers.

The sweet, potent drink stung the boy's lips deliciously and he shivered slightly as the Argentinean leaned over him, placing more of his weight on Christian's bared chest. His hand threaded in the long, dark hair, smoothing it back from the pale forehead. The young poet closed his eyes. "Please," he whispered, arcing his neck.

In accordance with his wish, the Argentinean sated him, their mouths joining, tasting, devouring. Their lips crashed against each other in a blind, half-drunk effort to clean the alcohol from the other's mouth. "... wanted this," the Argentinean groaned, "... so long..."

It was true. Ever since that first day in Toulouse's flat, he had watched the boy, wanted him. But it had seemed that he would never have what he desired. Until she died and released him from her siren's spell. She had released them both, for he had loved the diamond as well, much like other men. But he had never wanted her like this.

Christian found himself grasping at the larger man who pressed down on him, his hands finding their way inside the white shirt, pushing it up and finally drawing it over the dark head. His hands moved over sinuous muscles that bunched and stretched beneath his touch, over hard, sun-abused skin that burned his fingertips. She had never burned like this.

He had never been afraid with her, like he was now.

But the fear was as intoxicating as the absinthe, and just as strong.

He was drunk by both and could not turn back now.

Morning would come, sobering and too-bright. But for now... for now, he was here. He was here amidst the broken glass and absinthe and discarded clothing. 

At the edge of his vision, he faintly saw La Fee Verte, flitting in the corner of the room and giggling impishly at what she saw. He might have taken more notice of her at one time. But he had grown weary of her teasing. Instead, he closed his eyes and surrendered himself. 

For now, for now it felt right.

END

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"Nothing funny... I just like talent."


End file.
